


under starlight

by tarcanza



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Fuckbuddies To Lovers, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Romance, True Love, Truth or Dare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:21:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26795053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarcanza/pseuds/tarcanza
Summary: Jonny stretches like a cat, all lithe and limber, bringing a hand to scratch lazily against his stomach. “Truth or dare, Peeks?” Jonny asks, eyes slitted open, peering up from under his lashes. He’s sprawled all loose on the bed, leaning back on his elbows, back arched enough that Patrick can see the hard press of his nipples through the thin white cotton of his shirt. Thighs spread a little wide—a suggestion.
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Comments: 67
Kudos: 268





	under starlight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thathockey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thathockey/gifts).



> I am about a week late with this WHOOPS but HAPPY FREAKING BELATED BIRTHDAY to my love, thathockey—this one is all for you <3 I am so, so grateful to have met you. You are legitimately the reason I started writing fic seriously, and I would not be here without you. Your constant love and support have meant the world to me, and I just simply adore you. THANK YOU FOR EXISTING. I hope you enjoy this! 
> 
> To thefourofswords—saying "thank you" wouldn't do you justice. I am SO GRATEFUL to you, not only for beta'ing this fic, but for talking me off the metaphorical ledge multiple times, giving me the best advice, being incredibly patient with me, and just generally being a lovely human. Thank you, thank you, thank you for all your help. Seriously, I don't have enough words. 
> 
> To solizabeth and Dauhu—y'all are my rocks. Thank you so, so much for the cheerleading and encouragement and listening to me be annoying about this fic for weeks lol! You guys are amazing, and I love you <3

He’s touching Jonny too much. He knows he is. But Jonny’s touching him right back. They’re pressed close—too close—when they stumble into their room, bodies possessed by the high of victory, moving in a tangle of limbs. 

Maybe it’s the alcohol thrumming through their veins, making them a little slow and stupid, reckless in a way that has more to do with fractured chemical signals between their neurons rather than bravery or boldness—the they way they’re bundled up tight against each other doesn’t feel like a stolen touch so much as an inevitability.

They’re _loud,_ way too fucking loud, have been the whole way back. Enough for the concierge to look up from his newspaper and throw them a dirty look, enough that their heavy, fumbling footsteps will probably disturb the people in the room below them. 

They kick their shoes off hard against the wall, socked feet dragging across the carpet. Patrick’s got the solid weight of Jonny’s arm curled around his neck, the inner junction plastered to the thin, heated skin, Jonny’s breath humid and ghosting sour-sweet from shot after shot of liquor—eight, maybe. At least seven. 

Patrick had tried to focus on Sharpy’s face back at the bar—the way it was creased with laughter. When that didn’t work, on Duncs’ gap-toothed grin. But every time Jonny picked up a drink it was a lost cause, Patrick’s eyes helplessly tracking the way Jonny’s throat worked under the dim lights instead. 

Eight. Yeah, eight. 

Nine, if you counted the one from the guy who’d crowded Jonny tight against the bar, ducking down to whisper into Jonny’s ear, pressing his fingers hard into Jonny’s waist. Patrick didn’t. Couldn’t. 

Patrick would shiver at the way the hot air brushed across his cheek if it weren’t for the fact that his body’s lost all sense of command, sweat-damp curls tucked against the vulnerable hollow of Jonny’s throat, tickling the underside of his chin. 

Patrick’s close. Too close, in a way he’d never allow himself under the bright light of day.

Jonny chokes out a laugh as he stumbles for a second, and Patrick catches him, thumb settling on his wrist, grounded by the beating of Jonny’s pulse against his fingers, how he can feel Jonny’s life underneath him. 

He presses in a little, a touch that’s only made possible by the fact of the quiet of their hotel room and the night sky outside—all starlight wrapped under black paper, pricked with little holes to let the shine through. 

The door shuts behind them, and they untangle. There’s no need for them to be twined together anymore. Well, maybe there was never a need. But now there’s no excuse either, so Patrick swallows back a wave of bitterness and makes himself stand stock-still as Jonny sways away from him, dropping onto the bed. 

Jonny stretches like a cat, all lithe and limber—lets out this aborted little sound that’s a cross between a sigh and a moan, bringing a hand to scratch lazily against his stomach. “Truth or dare, Peeks?” Jonny asks, eyes slitted open, peering up from under his lashes. He’s sprawled all loose on the bed, leaning back on his elbows, back arched enough that Patrick can see the hard press of his nipples through the thin white cotton of his shirt. Thighs spread a little wide—a suggestion. It would be, if it were anyone else. But hell, Patrick’s wasted, and maybe his brain has a habit of seeing what it wants to see. 

Patrick lets out a low groan, scrubbing a rough hand across his face. He presses the heels of his palms against his eyes. Maybe if he does it hard enough, he’ll stop reading the open cradle of Jonny’s thighs as an invitation. Shit, he needs to stop drinking. 

“We really doing this, Tazer?” he says. “Little late for games, don’t you think?” It was a stupid idea two hours ago, and it’s an even stupider idea now. “Thought you said Sharpy was an idiot for starting that shit.” 

Jonny grins, slow and wide, sliding a palm over the freshly made sheets before digging his fingers in, ruining the smooth white with creases. “Maybe I changed my mind.” He brings his head up, leveling a look at Patrick. “Live a little, Kaner.”

And Patrick has to huff out a laugh at that, throw his head back at the hilarity of Jonathan Toews telling him to let go, to do _more_ , as if Patrick living too much and too hard isn’t half the root of their problems. But when he drags his eyes to Jonny’s, there’s something challenging in his gaze, and Patrick feels the familiar rush of competitiveness coil and curl in his stomach. 

Jonny pats the space next to him, so Patrick doesn’t let himself think too hard, clinging to the remaining liquor-soaked blur even as each passing second whittles it down. He walks over and plops down with an exhale, making the mattress bounce and the headboard rattle against the wall, squeezing his toes into the sheets before turning towards Jonny. “Okay, Jonathan, let’s play,” he drawls, letting his lips tug into his most obnoxious smirk, something guaranteed to nettle and aggravate, to tease out that gorgeous irritation on Jonny’s face. 

But Jonny doesn’t bite—doesn’t go pink with annoyance or grow a little crease between his brows. He just looks amused, dropping his back against the bed and folding his hands across his chest. 

“Truth or dare, Peeks?” he repeats, voice colored with mirth. Jonny usually carries this slightest hint of tension with him—whether because of all the responsibility he shoulders or just because he’s _him,_ Patrick doesn’t know _._ It makes him a little stiff, a little tight. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but—right now he looks all soft and relaxed, the slope of his shoulders gentle and loose. Jonny all slack-mouthed and lazy with ease—it’s dangerous. 

Patrick likes it. Maybe a little too much. 

“Truth,” he gets out, mouth shaping the word and expelling it before his brain can catch up and parse the consequences of his actions. He’d been too busy tracing the curve of Jonny’s jaw to make a conscious decision. 

Jonny’s tongue flashes pink, swiping a quick pass over his bottom lip. “Kaner,” he says, voice soft and serious. It sends Patrick’s heart straight to his throat, all the truths he has locked away from Jonny over the years suddenly rising up and nervously knocking against his ribcage. “Would you rather,” he pauses, eyes sweeping across Patrick’s face in an arc “...Be able to talk to animals or be fluent in every language in the world?”

Patrick stares at Jonny for a moment before sputtering out into laughter. “That’s the wrong game, moron.” 

“Says who?” Jonny challenges. “You can still answer the question truthfully.” And, well, he’s got a point. 

“Animals, _obviously,_ ” Patrick says imperiously as Jonny bites back on a smile.

“Predictable.”

“If you knew, why’d you ask?” Patrick points out. 

“Dunno,” Jonny shrugs, eyes fond when they turn to trail across Patrick’s face. Then he’s shifting closer, closing the space between them until he can hook his ankle around Patrick’s.

_Oh._

“Okay, now do me,” Jonny says.

“Truth or dare?” Patrick asks, slipping the question out all casual, steady—nothing betraying the way his body’s all keyed up and feverish, singing at this new point of contact. 

“Dare.” 

Patrick purses his lips, squints at the ceiling. “Shit, I can’t think of one,” he says regretfully. And then Jonny’s fingers are pushing up his shirt, leaving a stinging pinch to the soft skin above his hip bone as Patrick hisses, short and sharp. 

“Kaner, come on,” Jonny demands, sounding the same way he does on the bench, bossy and full of it. It makes Patrick want to choke him. It makes Patrick want to go to his knees. 

Patrick doesn’t do either of those things. 

He settles for a quick punch to Jonny’s bicep—except when his knuckles connect with Jonny’s skin, they slow down and slide over in a caress instead. “Give me a sec,” he finds himself saying, and he doesn’t know if he needs the time to figure out a question to ask or to process the way Jonny’s upper arm feels. Maybe a bit of both. 

“Okay, um—remember that girl, Krista?” he asks finally, careful not to look at Jonny. 

Jonny snorts. “Yes, Patrick, I remember Krista,” he says patiently. “We only dated for six months.”

“Pull up her Insta and like a picture from two years ago.”

Jonny’s face smooths out into something amused. “That’s diabolical.”

“Your game, man,” Patrick shrugs, finally letting his head shift against his pillow to meet Jonny’s gaze head-on. 

“Touché,” Jonny admits. He lifts his hips for a moment, the gravity of the movement leading his shirt to fall back a bit towards his chest. Patrick rests his eyes on the sliver of exposed skin as Jonny digs his cellphone from out of his back pocket. Jonny has a bruise. It’s faint, but it’s there—in the shape of fingerprints. The guy at the bar. Patrick flushes with heat, and he doesn’t know if it’s desire or jealousy or a fucked up combination of both. 

“Okay, done,” Jonny’s voice cuts through his thoughts. “Truth or dare, Peeks?”

Jonny’s shirt is still tugged up. Patrick keeps staring at the imprint, the faint purple of it. “Truth,” he says distantly. 

“Not in a daring mood, eh?” Jonny teases. “Okay.” There’s a pause. Patrick can’t tell if it’s on purpose or not, if Jonny’s taking the time to chase down his flitting thoughts or if it’s for dramatic effect. “What's something you don’t want me to know?” he says finally. 

“The fuck kind of question is that?” 

“Good, isn’t it?” Jonny grins, looking far too pleased with himself. Usually, this makes him seem earnest—tonight, it makes him downright edible, and Patrick shifts the slightest bit closer, feeling like he’s edging towards a forest fire instead of running away. It’s stupid, and he’s helpless to stop himself. 

“Come on, Peeks. Tell me something you don’t want me to know,” Jonny repeats, voice firm and gentle in the worst possible way. 

_I try so hard not to see your face when I touch myself, but you find me in my dreams anyway. When I wake up, and there’s a wet spot, it feels inescapable. It feels like the truth. It feels like failure._

or

_You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen._

or

_I think my love for you will ruin me._

Patrick swallows hard. He could brush it off, say something inconsequential. He could make it mean, make it hurt. He could make it kind. Jonny looks expectant, waiting for him. Silent, eyes wide—pink lips parted. Patrick’s gaze lands on the bruise again. 

“When we fight—you’re right, most of the time,” he finds himself saying. “But I argue with you anyway because I hate losing to you.”

He thinks Jonny makes a noise, but he can’t hear over the sound of blood rushing in his ears. He didn’t have to say something that cost him so heavily. Maybe it’s the alcohol. Yeah, it must be the alcohol.

“Now I’ll always wonder,” Jonny’s voice interrupts, and Patrick turns towards him again. “Every time we argue.”

Patrick smiles. “You’ll never know, so I guess it doesn’t really matter.”

Jonny groans, turns his head to mash his face against his pillow. “Yes it does,” he mumbles against the fabric. He pops his head back up, hair slightly disheveled. “That’s fucked.”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to.”

When Jonny sighs, Patrick feels it against his skin. They’d gotten close again, somehow. So close. 

“My turn,” Jonny mumbles, lips moving to form the words mere inches away from Patrick’s own. His eyes are closed now, lashes curling dark and pretty, the thin blue veins of his eyelids just barely visible in the shadows. 

“Truth or dare, Jonny?” Patrick murmurs

“Truth,” Jonny whispers back, blinking slowly before shutting his eyes again. Maybe he’s getting sleepy. Patrick uses the opportunity to steal a glance at the bruise again. Four fingers. “Peeks?” Jonny prompts, eyes still closed.

“Um, which one of the guys would you choose to be stuck in a room with for a week if you had to?” he says absently. Patrick wonders if the thumbprint is on the other side of the curve of Jonny’s waist, if the purple is deeper there. 

“Patrick,” Jonny says sharply, and Patrick has to look up. He knows he’s been caught out by the way Jonny’s staring at him. “You can ask me anything.”

“I know,” Patrick says, mind going dizzy with static, trying to quiet the alarm bells. 

“That’s not what you want to ask me,” Jonny says, sounding so sure it makes Patrick tense up like a caged animal. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Patrick replies tersely. Jonny doesn’t answer, just looks at him, steady and calculating. 

Patrick’s throat goes tight with panic. He’s angry all of a sudden, struck by how fucking stupid this is. He feels like they’re playing at being rookies again, when they could stumble home from a late night out and test the boundaries of their relationship in the dark and shake it off the next day. 

But there’s a suggestion of an ache threatening to pulse through his head, and his mouth’s gone bone-dry—Patrick can tell he’s going to feel this in the morning. The alcohol will make his limbs heavy. And whatever _this_ is will sink in his chest like a stone, weighing him down for weeks on end. “Tazer, this is dumb.” His voices comes out all rough, like it’s been scraped over with a serrated knife. “Let’s go to bed.” 

“Come on,” Jonny insists, and there’s the shade of something desperate skirting his voice. Patrick lets himself look, really look. Scans the dips and valleys of the face he knows so well, some parts lost to the shadows. 

And then Jonny’s grabbing his hand, placing his fingers right on top of the bruise. “Ask me,” he says roughly, and Patrick has to fight not to gasp, the last of his resistance snapping away.

“Does it hurt?” Patrick asks finally. He still can’t look at Jonny. 

“Yes.” Jonny’s voice is clear. 

“Do you like that it hurts?”

Patrick closes his eyes as soon as the question is out, regret and anticipation swirling and clashing together his stomach. They can’t do this shit again, but it’s too late to stop now. Patrick’s terrified of hearing the answer—falling off the edge of a cliff, not into the unknown, but to the known, a pattern of mutual lust and pain that they’d put behind them years ago. _And for good reason,_ his brain reminds him.

“You know I do,” Jonny says, and Patrick wants to punch something even as arousal burns bright in his gut. He settles for digging his fingertips into Jonny’s bruised flesh until he flinches. “Truth or dare, Patrick?” Jonny rasps out, not doing a single thing to loosen the clamp of Patrick’s fingers against his skin.

“Truth.”

“I didn’t know you would care, all these years later. I didn’t even know you looked.”

It’s not a question. Patrick lifts his fingers off, tugs Jonny’s shirt down until he’s completely covered, smooths it down for good measure. “I always look. Of course I look.” He feels tired, all of a sudden—completely fucking exhausted. “Just because we stopped doesn’t mean my dick magically stopped finding you attractive.” 

Patrick closes his eyes and wishes he could go to any place, any time—anything but here and now under Jonny’s heated gaze with his breath coming out fast like he’s been socked in the gut with revelation. 

“Peeks,” Jonny starts, and Patrick clenches his eyes shut tighter, not even the slightest bit ready to hear what Jonny has to say next. “You’re hard,” which—

Patrick chokes out a laugh—not because it’s funny. There’s nothing funny about this. It’s crazy how two little words light his body up like a live wire, low-level arousal flaring into a roaring flame at Jonny’s simple, appreciative acknowledgment of his desire. Patrick’s body is at odds with his brain, aching with the need to reach out and touch even as a steady rhythm of _danger danger danger_ beats against his skull. 

“Shit, Jonny.” He shifts his hips a little, feeling the pressure of his dick pressing against his jeans. He should get up. Go to the bathroom, maybe. Make an excuse. Flip off the lights and get into his own bed, burrow in and hold his body against the sheets until it can be trusted not to make any stupid decisions. There are a lot of things Patrick should do. He turns his head instead.

The look on Jonny’s face turns Patrick inside-out. It’s _hungry_ , Jonny’s eyes roaming across Patrick’s face, meeting Patrick’s gaze before darting down and catching on his mouth. Jonny hasn’t looked at him like that in—forever. Or at least it feels like forever. A dark flush has spread across Jonny’s cheeks like a drop of red paint blooming through a bowl of water. He licks his lips. “I choose dare.”

“We’re not 15 fucking years old.”

Of course Jonny has to reach out, press the heel of his palm against Patrick’s dick through his jeans. Patrick’s moan strangles on a laugh, delirium spiking through his veins as his hips hitch up. “That’s a cheap move, Tazer.” 

Jonny lets out a laugh in response, low and breathy, shifting impossibly closer until his nose is barely brushing against Patrick’s curls, nuzzling in on a sigh. He drags a single knuckle down the length of Patrick’s dick, pressing in a little when he gets to the head. “Dare me,” he whispers, lips reaching up to graze Patrick’s ear, and this time Patrick does shiver. And then the fucker blows into Patrick’s ear, erupting into hiccuping giggles. It makes Patrick groan, smushing his hand against Jonny’s face on instinct. 

Jonny sinks his front teeth into Patrick’s wrist. Not hard enough to hurt. Just enough for Patrick to feel the ridges pressing into his skin. Maybe it was meant to make Patrick release his hold. But Patrick doesn’t, and Jonny doesn’t move his teeth either. Instead Jonny brings his hands to brace either side of Patrick’s wrist, thumbs pressed on either side, and then—

He bites down, quick and sharp, making Patrick gasp despite himself. Jonny lets out another delighted laugh, skimming his nose against the flesh. He gentles over it with his tongue after, following it up with a light kiss. And then he takes the soft skin of Patrick’s wrist between his teeth and sucks, slow and lazy. 

Patrick’s dick twitches. 

He lifts his wrist off Jonny’s face, watching the way Jonny’s tongue flicks out to chase it, his eyes dark when he turns his head towards Patrick. Patrick reaches down, grabs Jonny’s hand.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.” He doesn’t know if he’s talking to himself or Jonny. He guides Jonny’s hand towards his dick, holds it down, rolls his hips into it. Inches even closer so that his nose brushes against Jonny’s, lips millimeters from Jonny’s own. 

When he speaks, it feels like he’s breathing the words straight into Jonny. “I dare you to take it out, Tazer,” he says mockingly, smile playing at his lips. 

It’s not smart, what they’re doing. It’s pretty fucking far from smart. But there’s something tempting about this time and space, the nebulous hour between the tail end of an exhilarating night out and the comedown to sleep. They could write it off in the morning, maybe. 

Maybe. 

Maybe they couldn’t. But Jonny’s hot and willing beside him, and Patrick’s been aching to touch him for years—and at the end of the day, he’s never been very good at denying himself the things he wants. And there’s nothing he wants more than Jonny. 

He’s still looking straight at Jonny when the victorious smile steals over Jonny’s face. Jonny stares right back, even as his hands reach down to unbuckle Patrick’s belt, pop the button on Patrick’s jeans, drag the zipper down. The sound of each routine action sends a shock of dirty heat through Patrick. 

It’s only when Jonny finally curls his fingers into Patrick’s waistband that he looks away, biting his lips as he tries to slide the jeans down, fabric bunching below Patrick’s exposed hip bones but refusing to go down any further because of the way Patrick’s ass is still firmly pressed against the mattress.

Jonny’s hands still, and Patrick doesn’t budge. He’s being a dick. He knows he is. But it’s worth it for the look of irritation that finally crosses Jonny’s face, the start of a pout tugging at his lips. Jonny brings his gaze up to glare at Patrick, about to open his mouth to tell him off when Patrick finally lifts his hips up with a smirk. 

Jonny bites back on the words, rolling his eyes, reaching down to roughly yank the jeans down over the curve of Patrick’s ass, taking the boxers with them. 

When Patrick lowers his hips back down onto the bed, all the irritation has bled out of Jonny’s face. He’s staring down—lips parted, lids all heavy, breaths coming out shallow and fast. 

Patrick can’t help but grin, pushing his shirt up to slide a hand from his abs down to his dick, stopping so that his fingers are splayed wide, framing the curve of his balls but not touching. He’d always gotten off on how much Jonny loved his cock—Jonny never said it in so many words, but Patrick could always tell. 

“My turn, Taze,” Patrick says, feeling gratified by the dazed look on Jonny’s face as Jonny drags his eyes to meet Patrick’s. 

“Truth or dare?” Jonny asks, voice coming out rough. 

“Dare,” Patrick says, running his tongue over his teeth. 

“Yeah?” Jonny says back, voice low. 

“Yeah.”

Jonny doesn’t say anything for a second, just starts unbuckling his own belt, taking so long to pull it through the loops that by the time it’s off, Patrick’s riding the crest of something nervous, almost painful in its intensity. 

Jonny doesn’t toss the belt to the side.

Instead, he takes Patrick’s wrist in one of his hands, pressing the belt into the thin skin with the other, right where he’d sucked a mark earlier. Patrick feels himself going red, skin flushing with the implications. 

“Dare you to let me,” Jonny says softly and he doesn’t even finish the thought, doesn’t have to. He circles his thumb against the delicate bones where Patrick’s inner wrist meets his hand, like he’s trying to tease a response out of Patrick. But Patrick can’t speak—he just looks. Looks at the place the belt is pressed into his wrist, the skin underneath feeling like it’s on fire. 

In the end, Patrick doesn’t say a word. Instead, he raises his other wrist and holds it out next to the one Jonny already has in his grasp. Jonny lets out a harsh breath, other hand coming to cradle it. And then he’s ducking down, pressing a kiss to each wrist before releasing them altogether. 

Patrick watches Jonny make a double loop with the belt, heat creeping up the base of his spine. Jonny holds it out in front of Patrick’s hands. “Put your hands through, Peeks,” Jonny murmurs, as if Patrick’s forgotten how to do this, as if his wrists aren’t tingling with the sense-memory of leather snug against his skin. Patrick wordlessly threads his wrists through, lets Jonny tighten the loop around them until they can’t move. 

And then he tugs his hands out of Jonny’s grasp, reaching his arms straight back above his head and anchoring his fingers against the headboard before Jonny can give him any more directions he doesn’t need. He sinks into the stretch of his shoulders, shivers when he imagines what he must look like, all stretched and laid out for Jonny to use anyway he wants. “Your turn,” he says, trying to keep arousal from clouding up his voice—doesn’t want it to go low and raspy, crack at the edges the way his insides are, doesn’t want Jonny to know what it does to him, being at his mercy like this. “Truth or dare.”

Jonny’s running his eyes all over Patrick, from his bound wrists down to his hard, leaking dick. “Dare.”

Patrick swallows. “Dare you to put your mouth on me.”

“Where?” 

“Anywhere,” Patrick grits out, feeling like he’s going to burst right out of his skin. 

And then there’s a smile curving onto Jonny’s face, wicked and sharp. “Anywhere?”

Patrick nods.

“Okay.” And then before Patrick can blink, Jonny’s ducking down, pressing his cheek against Patrick’s thigh. Jonny laps at his cock once, tongue swiping across the head, right down the slit before he withdraws completely, smirking at the way Patrick’s hips jerk as he cries out. 

“Jonny, you _prick._ ”

“You didn’t say my mouth had to stay there,” he points out with a lazy smile. “Maybe you need to get better at this game.” He stares straight into Patrick’s eyes, licking the precome still slicking his lips like an afterthought, like he was content to let it rest there. Does it slow and purposeful, like he consumed it solely for Patrick’s gaze, like he knew it would get Patrick hot. 

Patrick swears, dropping his head down. His cock is throbbing, whole body gone electric at the tease of Jonny’s tongue on him. “Truth or dare, motherfucker. Ask me.” 

“What’s the matter, Peeks? You in a rush?” Jonny mocks, reaching down to stroke a thumb across Patrick’s ankle. Even that little touch amps Patrick up further, has him squirming against the bed.“You want it to be my turn again, got something to put me in my place?”

Patrick scowls, fighting against the urge to kick Jonny or worse, beg him for his mouth. “Maybe.”

And then Jonny’s straddling him, jeans scraping rough over Patrick’s bare thighs, threading his fingers through Patrick’s hair and yanking his head back. “Too bad,” he hisses in Patrick’s ear, hot and heavy in Patrick’s lap. “Truth or dare?” 

_"Dare,”_ Patrick gasps out as Jonny’s teeth scrape across his throat, thumbs digging into his collarbones. 

Jonny hums, whispers the words against Patrick’s sweat-damp skin. “Dare you to stay quiet, stay still.” He reaches down to thumb at the head of Patrick’s dick as he says it, slow, hypnotic little circles followed by a rough, hard stroke, and a moan spills past Patrick’s lips. 

Jonny bites at Patrick’s jaw in warning, giving him a light slap across the cheek that would make Patrick’s knees buckle if he were standing up. “None of that now. Thought I told you to stay quiet, Peeks.” He reaches his fingers under Patrick’s shirt to tweak at a nipple, smiling when Patrick bites down on his lips to stop a gasp from escaping, unable to stop himself from arching into the stinging touch. “There you go.” Patrick glares at him, furious at how hot he is for this. 

Jonny grips his chin then, forces Patrick to look him straight in the eyes. “I could do anything to you right now,” he says, tone all friendly, conversational, “Feed you my cock, make you choke on it until you cry, fuck your little hole raw, make you take it til you scream.” Patrick’s body seizes up, mind going hazy with lust. Jonny grips his chin even tighter, gives it one last squeeze before he releases it. “I’m not gonna,” he says softly, and Patrick resists the urge to cry in frustration. 

Jonny sits back on his heels then, propping his hands against the mattress as he slides off the bed completely. For a wild second Patrick thinks he might leave—to do what, Patrick doesn’t know. But Jonny just stands at the foot of the bed, staring straight into Patrick’s eyes. 

Then he’s popping the button of his jeans open, dragging his zipper down. Sliding down his pants and boxers to reveal his thick thighs, tapering gorgeously down to his calves. He does it slowly, deliberately, unveiling himself to Patrick inch by inch. Putting on a show. By the time he’s slipping his shirt off, Patrick’s fingers are twitching with the desire to reach out. 

Patrick knows people admire the clean lines of Jonny’s body, all hard muscle and clear cuts. It’s not the edges that get to Patrick though, but rather the curves—the gentle knolls of Jonny’s ribs, the arch of his throat, the swell of his ass. Those are the parts Patrick wants to fit his fingers against most. 

Jonny’s tongue is nestled behind his teeth, fingers dipping to map the grooves of his abs, sliding up to brush his nails across the bottom of his nipple. He lets a gasp filter out. Patrick’s fingers dig into his palms. And then Jonny throws his head back, exposes his throat and wraps his fingers around and _squeezes._

“ _Fuck_ ,” Patrick chokes out. Jonny’s too pleased by the reaction to reprimand him, lowering his head back down and releasing the grip he has around his own neck with a smirk. 

Patrick widens his thighs on instinct, creating a space for Jonny to fit himself into when he climbs back onto the bed—it’s part of a language they’d built over quiet nights steeped in lust, learning the tells of each other’s bodies, the meaning of each moan, each harsh exhale. A wordless language. A language Patrick hadn’t used in years, but that he’s slipping back into like a second skin. 

The sight of Jonny flat on his stomach, tucked between Patrick’s thighs hits Patrick hard, enough that he has to close his eyes against it. A sharp nip to his inner thigh forces them open. Jonny meets his eyes, shifts up a few inches. Bites down deliberately. “Look at me,” he says before leaving a trail of stinging sucks up and down the soft skin there, cheek barely brushing against Patrick’s dick when he gets to the crease of Patrick’s thigh, and Patrick watches. 

Watches the sweet purse of Jonny’s mouth as it works against his skin, the delicate sweep of his lashes as they flutter. Watches as every memory of the nights they spent taking each other apart washes over him in a wave. Watches as the images blur together until he’s not sure if he’s trembling at how Jonny feels now or if he’s living in the past. 

Patrick’s thighs are sore by the time Jonny’s done, throbbing a slow ache that gets a little sharper when Jonny rubs his thumb against the sensitized skin, looking darkly satisfied at Patrick’s responding shiver. Jonny hoists himself up, brackets Patrick’s body with his own, bringing his palm up to Patrick’s mouth.

“Get it wet,” Jonny commands, and Patrick obliges, letting his mouth fill with saliva before licking a wet, broad stripe up Jonny’s hand, unable to resist biting a little when he gets to the tips of Jonny’s fingers. Jonny responds by twisting them and pushing them so far into Patrick’s mouth that he coughs a little. “Thanks, Kaner,” Jonny says brightly before sliding his way back down Patrick’s body and finally wrapping his fingers around Patrick’s dick. 

Patrick’s been hard for so long he groans at the touch, even though Jonny’s not fucking _doing_ anything, just watching with fascination as Patrick thickens further underneath his hand. Jonny finally drags his gaze away to look up at Patrick. “Now, what was it you asked for earlier?” he asks, blinking innocently at Patrick, lips moving closer to the head of Patrick’s dick until they’re hovering right above. 

He looks so cocky that Patrick has to snap his hips up, taking Jonny off guard—his dick grazes Jonny’s mouth, smearing it with precome. “Asked for your mouth, Jonny,” he says. “You gonna give it to me?”

Jonny closes his eyes, licks his lips. Gathers the residual wetness that streaked his chin and swipes it off with his thumb. He opens his eyes and looks straight at Patrick, wrapping his lips around his thumb and dipping it into his mouth, sucking it clean. “Yeah, Kaner,” he says, voice rough. “I’ll let you have it.” 

Jonny’s still meeting Patrick’s eyes when he slips his lips around the head of Patrick’s cock, holding them there with the barest pressure like he’s waiting to make sure Patrick’s looking back. Patrick has no idea what Jonny sees on his face, but Jonny must like it, because he smirks a little around Patrick’s cock before he starts the slow slide down Patrick’s shaft. He doesn’t break eye contact once, cheeks all hollowed, the clutch of his mouth so hot and tight and wet that Patrick feels a little crazy. 

Jonny goes until his lips bump against his knuckles, sliding back up and pulling off with a wet pop, smacking Patrick’s hips when they hitch up to chase his mouth. He takes his fingers off Patrick’s dick too, reaching down to stroke over the skin of Patrick’s aching thighs while Patrick lets out a frustrated whine.

“Jonny, you asshole,” Patrick rasps. “Quit being a fucking cocktease.” 

Jonny smirks, thumbs rubbing in lazy circles. “Patience is a virtue,” he says with a wink, pressing his stomach down further into the bed and letting his shoulders drop so he can really get his face tilted up under Patrick’s dick. It can’t be all that comfortable, but it’s a devastating angle visually and Jonny knows it, blinking prettily as he guides the head of Patrick’s towards his mouth, giving the underside little curling licks, slow and steady, flicking his tongue up obscenely at the end. 

Patrick’s straining with the effort to keep his hips still, letting a punched-out breath when Jonny abruptly ducks down to nose at his balls. And then Jonny starts pressing these _kisses_ to them, slow and lingering, his eyes fluttering closed, the kind of kisses you might press to a girl’s lips when you wanted to make it sweet for her. The sounds are filthy-hot—Patrick can feel a blush warm his cheeks like he’s a goddamn virgin, and when Jonny finally sucks one of Patrick’s ball’s into his mouth, Patrick can’t help but let out this stupid little whine, wishing more than anything that he could hide his face in his arms. 

“That’s it, baby,” Jonny murmurs, pleased, like he can feel how much it’s costing Patrick not to close his eyes or turn his head away, and Patrick feels pain and longing lace through him in equal measure at the term. It’s something that used to slip out when they were having sex—gasped into each other’s mouths or groaned out in moments where pleasure would cloud their brains. It wasn’t often, and it wasn’t on purpose, and Patrick knew it didn’t mean shit. Still, every time it happened, Patrick would come so hard that he felt like he was going to black out. 

Jonny takes a few moments to brush his lips over Patrick’s inner thighs again, feather-light, and something about it feels so intimate that Patrick curls into himself, automatically tries to shut his legs—Jonny doesn’t let him, spreading Patrick even wider than before, making his touch impossibly lighter still. 

Finally he wraps his fingers back around Patrick’s dick and guides it back towards his mouth. Patrick can see the spit pooling in Jonny’s mouth as it closes around the pink head of Patrick’s cock. Some of it escapes, dripping down the sides of Patrick’s shaft, but Jonny doesn’t let it go to waste, sliding his lips down to catch it before it spills down onto Patrick’s balls, letting the slow drag back up spread it around, making Patrick’s cock shiny and slick. 

“So fucking pretty here,” Jonny sighs, rubbing his thumb across Patrick’s slit in a little circle before replacing it with the tip of his tongue, drawing the same pattern across the head before bobbing his head back down to swallow as much of Patrick’s dick as he can. 

“Fuck you, my dick isn’t pr—” Patrick’s protest cuts off on a gasp as Jonny circles the index finger and thumb of one hand up and down Patrick’s shaft to match the pace of his mouth while taking his other hand and scratching a hard line down Patrick’s chest to his abs. 

Jonny pulls off, keeping his fingers stroking up and down Patrick’s cock. “Pretty,” he repeats firmly, small smile tugging at his lips at the way Patrick jerks when he takes his other hand and scratches down the same line he did a few seconds earlier, turning the marks red and angry. 

Jonny moves his hands to span Patrick’s waist, big fingers splayed wide as he kisses up from Patrick’s happy trail all the way up to his sternum, rising up on his knees to reach up and tug Patrick’s arms down. He undoes the belt and slides it off Patrick’s wrists. “You okay?” he asks, tapping one of Patrick’s wrists, moving to massage Patrick’s shoulders when Patrick nods. “Okay here?” he asks, thumbs digging into the slightly strained muscles. 

“Yeah,” Patrick croaks out, trying his hardest not to melt into the touch. He can’t even look Jonny in the eyes—Jonny just had Patrick’s dick in his mouth, but somehow it’s the gentle way Jonny’s handling him that makes embarrassment burn bright in his stomach. 

“Good,” Jonny says, giving a final squeeze, “Because I’m gonna need you to get back in the game.”

He smirks at the way Patrick immediately bristles. “What do you mean _back in the game,_ ” Patrick says indignantly, any and all embarrassment vanishing. “I’ve never—I’ve always been in the game, fucker.”

Jonny hums. “It kind of seemed like you just sat on your ass while I did all the work, actually.”

Patrick sputters. “That’s fucking _bullshit_ , I contributed!”

Jonny raises a brow. “Is that right? How so?”

“By gracing your stupid mouth with my big fucking dick, that’s how.”

Patrick doesn’t miss the way Jonny’s eyes flick down at that to where Patrick’s still hard, cock still shiny with Jonny’s spit. Patrick smiles slowly. “I know it gets you off, having it in your mouth,” he says smugly, watching a pretty red flush spread over Jonny’s face. Patrick drags his gaze down to Jonny’s stiff cock, slow and deliberate. “Look at how hard you are, just from sucking my dick.” Jonny doesn’t say anything, just flushes deeper.

Patrick grins. “You know what that makes you, Jonathan? A cockslut.”

Jonny groans, managing to look embarrassed and condescending at the same time. “Shut the fuck up Kaner, that’s not hot.”

Patrick grins harder. “No?” He sits up, skimming a knuckle down Jonny’s dick, gratified by the twitch it gives, even as Jonny stays resolutely silent. “I think you like it, actually.” Jonny stares, unimpressed. Patrick shifts closer, bringing his face less than an inch away from Jonny’s. “Slut,” he says again. Nothing. So he stretches to whisper in Jonny’s ear. “ _Slut_.” 

When that doesn’t get a reaction, he resorts to blowing in Jonny’s ear the way Jonny did to him earlier. Jonny bats him off, trying to scowl—but there’s an unwilling smile starting to tug at his lips. “Slut,” Patrick croons again in his ear, and Jonny lets out a quiet snort. “ _Slut,_ ” Patrick says breathily in Jonny’s other ear, making Jonny let out a strangled noise, but he quickly tamps it down. Fuck it, time to play dirty. Patrick starts tickling him. “Come on, admit you’re a slut,” Patrick coos, while Jonny squirms in his grasp. 

“You psycho, _let me go_ ,” he gasps, shoulders shaking in amusement as he tries his hardest not to laugh. “Come on, Jonny, say it, admit you’re a slut for my dick,” Patrick insists, keeping up his attack, and finally Jonny starts chuckling. _Victory_. Patrick grins in triumph, tickling even harder. The chuckles turn into laughs, these belly-deep, hiccuping things that sound completely fucking ridiculous, and suddenly Patrick feels like the wind has been knocked clean out of him. His hands freeze in place.

“ _Fine_ , I’m a slut for your dick,” Jonny says, barely able to get to words out past the peals of laughter wracking his body, and Patrick just—stares.

Stares at Jonny’s open, laughing mouth, lips still red and puffy from taking Patrick’s cock. 

The way Jonny’s eyes are crinkling at the corners.

His blushing cheeks.

_You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen._

The wave of love and affection that crashes over Patrick is so strong that he thinks he might’ve actually stumbled back if Jonny didn’t slump against him, burying his laughing face in Patrick’s neck. It hits Patrick then, with his arms wrapped around Jonny’s shaking body, just how much of an idiot he is for doing this, for letting himself have this again. 

He can feel Jonny’s lashes tickling against his neck, the uneven puffs of air, the press of his mouth, warm, open, and a little wet. He can feel Jonny’s heart beat against his chest. Patrick never, ever wants to let go—which has always kind of been the whole problem, really. 

Jonny’s laughs recede into rolling giggles and then little sniffs before he finally lifts his face from Patrick’s neck. Patrick forces himself not to tighten his arms around Jonny, letting him retreat and sit back on his heels. He’s pink all over, the hair above his forehead endearingly rumpled—Patrick reaches up and smooths it down on instinct. 

“You’re a fucking terror,” Jonny says, eyes shining in amusement, and Patrick beams helplessly in response. “But you’re right,” he continues, smile turning into a smirk, voice dropping low. “I love your cock. Love how big it is, how the head is the same pretty pink as your lips.” He reaches down to rub a thumb across Patrick’s slit, soft and slow, making Patrick arch into his touch. “Love how it feels in my mouth, love how it tastes.” His voice has gone husky and deep. Jonny circles his hips a bit, reaching down to cup his dick. 

“It’s my turn, Peeks. You gonna dare me to get on my knees for you, make me take your cock?” Patrick tries not to choke on his tongue. His dick jumps a little—by the smirk on Jonny’s face, he notices. He drags his fingers down to rest on the finger-print shaped bruise on his waist. He watches Patrick trace the movement and presses down on the purpled skin. “You can have my mouth for real, make me feel it,” Jonny says softly, looking at Patrick steadily. 

And—

It’s a devastating image, Jonny on his knees, letting Patrick use his mouth as rough as he wants. Patrick can tell Jonny’s picturing it too by the way his eyes have gone dark, smirk going a little sharp. It would feel so good, Patrick knows it would. But—

Maybe it’s because the alcohol has finally burned out of his system, or maybe Jonny’s stupid, beautiful laugh finally brought Patrick down to Earth, but the realization that this is the last time he’ll get to touch Jonny finally strikes him. Underneath the arousal, Patrick feels suddenly heavy and sad, sore with the force of his desire. In the morning, they’ll have to pretend to forget, go back to being friends, just like they did before—because really, nothing’s changed. Patrick’s still in love, and Jonny’s not. 

It’s the last time, and Patrick doesn’t want to dare Jonny to get on his knees. _I_ _dare you to let me put my mouth on your body,_ he wants to say. _I dare you to let me cherish you._

_I dare you to love me._

Patrick reaches out to touch Jonny’s wrist. “Lie back, Jon,” he says softly, and Jonny raises an eyebrow but complies, knee-walking over to the center of the bed, turning around, and plopping back onto the mattress, hands folded behind his head on the pillow. He’s still smirking a little, but there’s curiosity in his gaze too, like he’s trying to figure out Patrick’s play. Patrick shucks off his shirt, and slides his pants and boxers all the way off before tossing them to the side, smiling at the appreciative little whistle Jonny gives in response. 

Jonny spreads his thighs when Patrick silently asks for permission to settle between them. It’s the exact same position they were in before this, Patrick realizes with a jolt, except they’ve switched places. 

“What’s the matter? Didn’t want me on my knees? My mouth not pretty enough for you or something?” Jonny asks, grinning. His cheeks are all ruddy from being turned on, and his limbs are loose. He looks comfortable, happy. _This is how you should always look_ , Patrick thinks. 

Patrick lets out a soft laugh, reaching out to press a thumb to the corner of Jonny’s mouth. “Trust me, your mouth’s plenty pretty enough,” he teases before going serious. “I, uh, had something else in mind, though.” Jonny doesn’t say anything, just looks at him, assessing, waiting for Patrick to speak again. “I want to dare you to dare me to do something.”

Jonny raises a brow. “Pretty sure that’s not how the game works,” he says. 

Patrick swats his thigh lightly. “It’s still me daring you to do something, so it totally counts, dipshit.”

Jonny squints suspiciously at him. “I don’t like this,” he says snottily, crossing his arms across his chest. 

Patrick rolls his eyes. “Well tough luck, because you don’t have a choice,” Patrick says sweetly.

Jonny lets out a suffering sigh. “ _Fine_ , what do you want to dare me to dare you to do?” he drawls, expression still warm and amused. 

Patrick’s throat clicks as he swallows, heart starting to beat faster. “I dare you to dare me to kiss you,” he says finally, feeling stupid just saying the words out loud. Jonny stares at him uncomprehendingly. “Dare me to kiss you.”

Jonny stares at him for a few seconds before snorting. “Uh, kind of a shitty use of a dare,” he says.

Patrick shrugs. “It’s my choice.”

Jonny narrows his eyes. “Okay, you weirdo—I dare you to kiss me,” he says, rolling his eyes. 

Patrick smiles and goes flat to his stomach, pressing a soft kiss to Jonny’s left kneecap, before meeting Jonny’s eyes. “Really?” Jonny says flatly. “That’s it? _That_ was your master plan?” 

_Patrick always worries about Jonny’s knees. He’s always falling all over the ice_ — _people think it’s because Jonny’s a bad skater, but it’s really because of his ridiculous skate radius. Patrick yells at him about it sometimes, but Jonny won’t choose grip any more than Patrick will choose glide. Jonny has no idea that every time he falls down, Patrick’s heart spasms in his chest._

Patrick strokes across the knobbiest part of Jonny’s kneecap, feeling the skin slide over the bone. “Ask me again,” he says.

Jonny’s brow creases in confusion. Patrick looks at him patiently.“Uh, I dare you to kiss me?” he says and it comes out as a question. 

Patrick kisses the underside of his belly button, top lip just barely grazing the bottom edge. 

_Jonny has taut, golden skin stretched over muscle. It’s kind of unfair how gorgeous it is_ — _Patrick wants to bite at it all the time, see the smooth color harshed up by a hint of red. He’s paler on the underside of his stomach, though_ — _it’s a subtle shift in shade, almost indiscernible. But Patrick looks closely enough to notice._

“Again.” 

Jonny swallows. “I dare you to kiss me.” 

Patrick peppers kisses along the defined line of Jonny’s lower abs, going back to scrape his bottom teeth against them and letting the inside of his bottom lip drag along the skin. Jonny shivers underneath him. 

_Patrick’s sisters used to giggle over a picture over David Beckham in Erica’s People Magazine. “He’s got the V-line,” Jackie would sigh as the girls stared dreamily. Patrick didn’t get the fuss, didn’t see what was particularly sexy about it_ . _Years later he rubbed off on the hard ridge of Jonny’s V for the first time, moans filtering from his throat. Now when Jonny’s half-dressed in the locker room, he can’t catch a peek without feeling a shock of heat go through him._

“I dare you to kiss me.” Jonny’s voice comes out rough. Patrick kisses right over Jonny’s heart, beating fast and erratic. 

_Patrick wishes Jonny would love him back._

Jonny’s “I dare you to kiss me’s'' turn into “kiss me’s” which turn into silent gasps as Patrick maps his way across. He’ll never get to tell Jonny how he feels, what Jonny means to him—how Jonny makes him laugh until his stomach hurts in a way no one else can, how Jonny sparks his anger like a match and makes him want to tear his hair out over the stupidest things.

How he’s the best person Patrick knows. 

So Patrick pours his love into Jonny’s body with kisses while Jonny’s muscles work under Patrick’s fingers, shifting restlessly under Patrick’s touch, like his skin is only barely keeping him inside. 

By the time Patrick moves from Jonny’s collarbones up the delicate arch of his neck, Jonny is trembling beneath him. Patrick shuts his eyes tight before hauling himself up to hover above Jonny, opening his eyes on the count of three. 

And then he’s looking down at Jonny’s face, eyes as wide as Patrick’s ever seen them, blinking up at Patrick like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. His breath is coming out in short little pants and he’s gone bright red, the kind that looks fevered and splotchy and takes over his entire cheek. 

Patrick ducks down to kiss Jonny’s chin before kissing a line across Jonny’s jaw. Jonny makes a little noise, eyes fluttering shut. Patrick cradles Jonny’s face in his hands, stroking across the heated skin with his thumbs. He kisses the apples of Jonny’s cheeks where the color is concentrated the most, the bridge of Jonny’s nose down to the tip, across his hairline, to his temple. When Patrick comes back up, there are little teardrops budding at the corners of Jonny’s eyes. 

One escapes and rolls down the side of Jonny’s face, and Patrick swipes it away with the pad of his thumb, feeling unbearably, undeniably tender. It just seems to overwhelm Jonny further because he lets out another little gasp and shuts his eyes tight, more tears escaping. Patrick swipes every drop away, leaning down to brush his lips as lightly as possibly across Jonny’s eyelids. He keeps his hands cradled around Jonny’s face, stroking across his cheekbones until Jonny finally opens his eyes. 

Jonny looks _wrecked_ , pupils blown out wide. "Patrick—" he starts, voice cutting off on a sharp inhale. 

_I love you._

_I love you._

_I love you._

"Yeah, Jonny?" Patrick asks gently, thumbing at the scar on Jonny’s upper lip, unable to keep the naked affection out of his voice. 

Jonny's breath stutters. _"Kiss me,"_ he says desperately. 

Patrick cards his fingers through Jonny’s hair and presses one last kiss to his forehead. “Anything you want.”

Patrick tucks his finger under Jonny’s chin and tilts it up, slowly ducking down to capture Jonny’s lips in a soft kiss. It’s a simple meeting of mouths, a sweet brush that doesn’t last for more than two seconds—as chaste as Patrick’s first. But there’s nothing simple about the way it feels. Jonny makes a wounded sound at the first point of contact between them and Patrick’s chest blooms with something so bright and happy he has to take a second to breathe after they part. Patrick strokes his thumb over Jonny’s jaw, tongue darting out to swipe over his top lip before he leans back down, pressing another soft kiss, making it last a few moments longer. 

Jonny doesn’t let him withdraw this time, wrapping his arms around Patrick’s neck and bringing Patrick’s mouth back down to meet his before Patrick can retreat too far. Jonny’s tongue teases at his bottom lip, gentle little strokes that don’t demand entry but rather request it. Jonny lets out a hungry little moan when Patrick’s lips finally part for him, this gorgeous sound that makes Patrick’s breath catch, stuttering an uneven puff of air into Jonny’s mouth as their tongues meet for the first time, brushing tentatively against each other.

Patrick subconsciously leans forward to deepen the kiss, but his knee abruptly slips against the sheets, leading him to lose his balance in a way that tears his mouth away from Jonny’s and almost causes him to fall over. Jonny starts giggling, because he’s a total dork, and Patrick scowls at him, which only leads the giggles to evolve into breathy laughs. Patrick grabs Jonny’s face between his hands and stamps a hard kiss to his lips to try to get him to shut up, but Jonny just keeps laughing against his lips, and he’s so lovely that Patrick has no choice but to drop a kiss onto the tip of his nose. It makes Jonny blush even deeper and he goes quiet, staring into Patrick’s eyes, suddenly shy. 

Patrick slips his thumb between their mouths to rest on Jonny’s bottom lip. “There.” He rubs lightly at the plump curve of it. “Now I’ve had your mouth for real,” he says softly, echoing Jonny’s filthy promise back at him and watching with fascination as embarrassment and vulnerability wage a silent battle on Jonny’s face.

Patrick doesn’t get to see what expression wins out because Jonny’s eyes flutter shut and he shudders, lips closing around Patrick’s thumb and sucking it in for a second, cheeks hollowing. He releases it with a soft pop, eyes staying closed as breathes against Patrick. 

“Truth or dare,” Patrick mumbles against Jonny’s lips, bringing his slightly wet thumb to stroke at Jonny's collarbone with one hand and rubbing a little circle on Jonny’s upper back with the other. 

“Truth,” Jonny all but whispers back, fingers coming to tangle in Patrick’s hair and pull him forward for one last lingering kiss. Patrick feels a jolt of surprise shoot through him at the answer, and he takes a moment to just press his forehead against Jonny’s so he can think. 

What can he ask Jonny? What truth does he want to know from him? In the end, only one thing comes to mind. 

Patrick strokes his index finger down Jonny’s throat, brings his lips to brush against Jonny’s ear. “What do you want right now?” he asks softly, feeling it when Jonny’s breath hitches against the side of his neck. He draws back until he’s facing Jonny again, who’s looking at him with wide eyes. “Anything you want, I’ll give it to you,” he says, chest feeling so full he thinks it might burst. 

It’s not an entirely unselfish request. It’s all he’s ever wanted to do—it’s all he’s never been able to do. He wanted to give Jonny love, but Jonny didn’t want it. He wanted to make Jonny proud, but he’s fucked up so many times that that dream is dead and gone. But right now, in this moment, Patrick thinks he can do it. He can make Jonny happy, if only for a moment. Jonny swallows and lets out a shaky laugh. “What if I wanted you to do a thousand pushups?” he jokes. 

“I’d do it,” Patrick says immediately. 

Jonny blinks, humor faltering into surprise before he schools his features. “What if I wanted you to run to CVS and get me a Reeses Cup?” he asks lightly. 

Patrick smiles, reaching out to rest his hands on Jonny’s hips because the urge to be touching Jonny at all times is too strong. “Then I’d say ‘who are you and what did you do with my Jonny’ because there’s no way your ‘sugar is the enemy’ ass is asking for refined carbohydrates at two in the morning."

Patrick swears he can see Jonny’s eyes widen at ‘my Jonny’ and promptly wants to smother himself with a pillow—but he can’t help the words falling from his lips, having locked them away for too long. 

“So are you saying you _wouldn’t_ do it, then?” Jonny tries to frown, crossing his arms against his chest, but the way his lips are tugging up at the corners betrays him. It’s so adorable Patrick has to kiss him again. 

“Of course I’d still do it, idiot,” Patrick says softly, reaching one hand up to stroke through Jonny’s hair. “Even for imposter-Jonny.”

The teasing smile on Jonny’s face flashes to shock before it fades into something uncertain. “Oh,” he says, ducking his head, and it comes out a little shy. 

“What if…” he trails off, swallowing and looking back up to meet Patrick’s eyes. “What if I wanted you to touch me?”

Patrick blinks, nerves lighting up his insides. “You can ask for anything. I’m serious.”

Jonny gazes at him, expression turning sheepish before he looks down. “I just want you to touch me,” he says quietly. 

So Patrick plants a light kiss on Jonny’s throat and starts to smooth his hands over Jonny’s skin, pulse pounding—he pauses over Jonny’s chest to feel the ticking of his heart, caresses his collarbones where shadows dip and pool, reaches back to cup the swell of Jonny’s ass, and watches Jonny shut his eyes. 

Patrick lets himself touch the parts of Jonny that their rough, hard fucks never properly allowed him to, where the most he could do was steal little brushes under the covers, trying to memorize the expanse of Jonny’s body in his mind. Patrick moves with intention now, slotting his fingers into each dip and curve, learning the way every inch feels under his fingers the way he did earlier with his lips. And Jonny lets him, body trembling under Patrick’s hands. Patrick marvels at the places their skin touches, wishing he could suspend them in this moment. 

When Patrick glides his fingers along the tendons in Jonny’s arms, Jonny drops his head and shivers. His thighs unfurl, splitting wide, and his fingers drop to caress his lower stomach, sliding low until the edge of his pinky finger is brushing the base of his dick. His hand flexes like it’s aching to touch, but it stops itself from moving down. It’s almost like—

He’s asking for permission, biting down on his lips, all plump and glossy, teeth digging in a little harder as the moments pass. Heat curls into Patrick like smoke, searing into something bright when Jonny lets out a little whine as Jonny rolls his hips forward a little. “Baby,” Patrick says, giving into the word, letting himself mean it, steeps it in sweetness. “Touch yourself for me.” 

The way Jonny touches himself is a revelation. He starts by rolling his palm across the swollen head, slicking his hand with the precome pearling at the slit, giving his cock a few steady pumps like he’s trying to ground himself, maintain a semblance of control. But he can’t keep up the disciplined strokes, starting to fuck up into his fist with sinuous little rolls of his hips. He’s so _into_ it—all flushed skin and filthy little moans, and Patrick gets caught up in just watching Jonny making himself feel good. 

Jonny used to tell him that he had beautiful hands sometimes, on the nights he wanted Patrick to take him apart completely. _Like a pianist’s or a painter’s_ — _perfect proportions,_ he’d gasp out while Patrick’s fingers were splitting him open. It made Patrick angry, brought an edge to their fucking, because Jonny never sounded anything but painfully sincere. 

Jonny’s fingers—they’re not beautiful at all. There’s nothing delicate about them. They’re big and thick, and it feels dirty to watch them wrapped around Jonny’s straining cock, coaxing little sighs of pleasure from his mouth with each hot stroke and dexterous twist of the wrist. 

Patrick feels a rush of saliva fill his mouth. “Don’t stop,” he murmurs before ducking his head down to suckle at the head of Jonny’s cock, forehead pressed to Jonny’s tensed abs. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jonny groans, rhythm stuttering a little before he resumes his strokes, tightening his fingers around his cock and moving faster now. Patrick keeps his lips loose and wet, just slipping over the head, rubbing all over. Now every time Jonny’s hand comes up his shaft, his fingers bump into Patrick’s lips.

Patrick can see Jonny’s big knuckles when he opens his eyes. _Fuck,_ it’s so dirty—

Suddenly Jonny stills, taking his hand off his cock. Patrick makes a noise of surprise, but Jonny’s fingers tangle in his hair and hold him in place, pushing Patrick down a little deeper on his cock. “Don’t move,” Jonny says roughly. Jonny’s other hand finds Patrick’s and he spreads his fingers wide and slots Patrick’s fingers in the spaces between his own—they look small, delicate nestled between Jonny’s.

Jonny doesn’t say anything, just guides their intertwined fingers back to his dick until they’re jacking Jonny’s cock together. Jonny slows down their strokes, rolls his hips up slow and measured so Patrick feels the full drag of Jonny’s cock against the pads of his fingers. 

It’s so much, being surrounded by Jonny on all fronts. The heat rising off Jonny’s body is so thick Patrick feels like he can almost see it, like steam fog rising off water. He has the taste of Jonny’s arousal on his tongue, all salt and musk, the sound of Jonny’s gasps in his ears—sees Jonny’s spit-slicked cock fuck into his own mouth and feels the heated skin under his fingers. 

It’s too much, because—it’s not enough. Patrick wants _more._ Patrick wants _everything._

He can’t have it.

_This is the last time._

Patrick pulls off, breath coming out fast and heart aching. _Fuck,_ why can’t he just enjoy this? He untangles his fingers from Jonny’s—soothes Jonny by stroking his hip bone when Jonny whines at the loss. “Patrick,” Jonny rasps out, biting down on his lips from saying anything else, from asking, from pleading, from begging. It doesn’t matter—Patrick hears it anyway. 

He has to kiss Jonny then, despite his entire body screaming that he needs to leave, get out, protect himself—he has to feel the fever of Jonny’s mouth against his own until he feels dizzy with it. He draws back until they’re mouth barely touching mouth, gasping into each other and unwilling to move further apart. 

He should stop. He needs to stop. 

“Jonny,” he whispers, running his finger down the side of Jonny’s face, feeling tender and raw, drawing back so he can meet Jonny’s eyes. He takes Jonny’s hand off his cock and tangles their fingers together, bringing their joined hands to rest between their chests. Jonny’s eyes are still glazed over, running over Patrick’s face slowly. Patrick needs to _do_ something, move—but he finds himself rooted in place, staring into Jonny’s eyes. Jonny’s breath starts coming out a little fast, but he doesn’t move, staring right back, eyes filling with something like wonder. 

They stay like that, just looking at each other. 

At some point, Patrick’s other hand moves to Jonny’s stomach, fingers mindlessly drawing patterns over Jonny’s skin. It’s not until Jonny freezes, eyes going wide before his expression closes off, that Patrick realizes what he’s doing.

Patrick had started tracing ‘88’ on Jonny’s skin. 

_Shit._

Jonny’s eyes shut tight on a harsh exhale.

“Jonny—”

Jonny untangles his fingers from Patrick’s and snatches his hand back. When Jonny looks up again, his eyes are dark. “Fuck me, Kaner,” he bites out. 

Patrick barely stops himself from flinching. “Wh—What?” he stutters out. 

“It’s your turn, right?” Jonny says roughly. He pulls Patrick down into a hard kiss, and Patrick’s lips part helplessly. “Dare you to fuck me,” he says, biting at Patrick’s bottom lip. 

“I—”

“Make me feel it. It’s what we do to each other, come on.” Jonny brings Patrick’s hand to press against the fingertip-shaped bruises at his waist. “That’s what you wanted, right?” He’s shaking a little. Patrick’s words lodge in his throat. Jonny kicks at Patrick’s knees so they buckle, and his hands reach up to grab at Patrick’s ass. He pulls Patrick down on top of him while rolling his hips up, sliding their dicks together. It’s hot and slick—a gasp falls from Patrick’s lips, sparks shooting up his spine .

“Yeah,” Jonny murmurs, pleased. “That’s what you want.”

 _Not right now. Not when I’ll never get to have you again._

But when Patrick looks at Jonny again, there’s something pleading in his eyes, like he’s begging Patrick to go with this. Something heavy settles in Patrick’s stomach. _Fuck._ He’s so stupid—he got his dumb feelings everywhere, and it scared Jonny off. _That’s not what he wants from you,_ he tries to remind himself. _That’s never what he wanted from you._ This _is what he wants from you_ — _a rough and dirty fuck. You said you would give him what he wanted. You promised._

So Patrick closes his eyes, swallows, and gives himself a moment. He thinks about the first time he ever realized he was in love with Jonny, all the way back in rookie year. Jonny had been red-faced and furious, yelling at him on the bench, and it struck Patrick like a crackle of electricity that he’d never loved anyone like this before—he knew even then he wouldn’t love anyone like this again. 

He thinks of the first time he and Jonny kissed—which was well after the first time they hooked up. The urgency of it, how it felt like breathing wasn’t as important as the need to feel each other’s mouths pressed together. 

He thinks of the look in Jonny’s eyes when he kissed him tonight. He thinks about all the million little moments where he’s looked at Jonny and felt utterly, overwhelmingly in love, and he carefully tucks them away—for good this time. 

When he opens his eyes, he lets a filthy smirk curl onto his face. “I can do that,” he says, not letting the way his heart aches bleed onto his face when the tension seeps out of Jonny at his words, his grin turning feral, bright. 

Jonny pushes him back and flips himself over, pressing his elbows and knees against the mattress and popping his ass up, presenting himself for Patrick. 

“Come on, Kaner,” he says, “Give it to me.”

Patrick doesn’t recognize the sound that tears out of his chest. Lovesick or not, the sight of Jonny offering himself up sparks dark heat. Patrick tries to follow the thread, lose himself in it—drown out any stupid fantasies of treating Jonny nice. 

He scrambles off the bed for a second, grabbing lube and a condom out of his bag before settling back behind Jonny. He tears open the wrapper and rolls the condom over his cock, noting the muscles rolling and flexing under Jonny’s skin as he shifts his weight forward, waiting patiently for Patrick to get inside him. 

Patrick gets on his knees, hauls Jonny’s hips forward. Makes sure to do it rough, dig his fingers hard into Jonny’s skin. He’s rewarded with a moan, Jonny arching his back even more, making his ass pop at an obscene angle. He brings his hand down to smack one of Jonny’s cheeks, watching the pale skin fill with red. _“Yeah,”_ Jonny whines, splitting his thighs further. Patrick spreads his cheeks, getting ready to give Jonny a few perfunctory fingers before sliding in—

_Fuck._

Patrick swallows, staring at the tight, pink pucker of Jonny’s hole, the delicate skin surrounding it. He’d forgotten what Jonny looked like here. His tongue feels all heavy in his mouth. He thinks he’d slur his words if he tried to speak right now—they’d come out all dumb and dazed. The urge burns through him, hard and bright. He wants to—

He can’t. He’s never—

He’s thought about it. But it always felt like crossing a line, leaving no room for plausible deniability. 

_This is the last time._

Fuck it. 

Before he can think too much, he’s leaning in and pressing a kiss to Jonny’s hole, right at the center, over the tight furl. Jonny’s hips jerk. “ _Jesus_ ,” he chokes, “Did you just—” Patrick’s cheeks burn even as he strokes the soft skin on either side of Jonny’s hole, watching it clench and flutter under his gaze. 

He answers with his tongue instead of his words, affirmation clear in the broad, flat stripe he licks from Jonny’s taint up to his hole, feeling a heady rush at the whimper Jonny lets out in response. Jonny’s all damp here, skin sticky with sweat, salt bursting on Patrick’s tongue in a way that makes his own cock ache. 

He peppers kisses down the cleft of Jonny’s ass before getting in deep with his thumbs, spreading Jonny’s rim apart, licking and sucking until Jonny’s hole is glossy with spit, making Jonny push back against Patrick’s face, a litany of curses and gasps escaping his lips. 

Patrick’s head’s all clouded up in the high of making Jonny feel good, of giving Jonny something he’s never given anyone before. With each noise Jonny makes, Patrick just wants to wrench more sounds out of him. He wonders if _anyone’s_ given Jonny this before. The jealousy that sweeps through him at the possibility just makes Patrick work harder, burying his face shamelessly. 

When Patrick finally works his tongue inside Jonny’s hole, Jonny’s spine goes tight. It loosens to tremors as Patrick enters him again and again with the tip of his tongue, the ring of muscle going lax and open. Shit, Patrick could probably get a finger in there without lube. Maybe even two. He moans at the thought, pressing the pads of two fingers against Jonny’s hole, circling them in a tease. He takes his other hand and gives into the urge to feel Jonny shake under his hands, smoothing down the knobs of Jonny’s spine, rubbing to soothe. Maybe he could—

Jonny flinches, shies away—Patrick stills his movements, lifting his hand off Jonny’s back immediately. “Patrick, just—” Jonny rasps out, voice hoarse and terse. His hands are fisted in the sheets. “I—just—get in me, okay?” Patrick’s mouth is still wet and burning, covered in the taste of Jonny. He swallows down the wave of embarrassment that sweeps through him at the harsh tone. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles out, fumbling for the lube and slicking his fingers up, trying to stop them from shaking. He fingers Jonny open in a daze, barely processing the cling of Jonny’s hole against his fingers. He resists the urge to tease him open, take his time, pump slow and draw out sighs—instead he works them in almost clinically, nothing about his movements designed to bring Jonny pleasure, just to open him up for Patrick’s dick. 

Jonny’s quiet the whole time. 

Patrick finally lines his cock up, presses his cockhead against Jonny’s wet hole, biting his lip at the sight and feeling of it flexing around the promise of his dick, like it’s begging for the intrusion. The second he starts the hot slide in, he knows he’s totally and utterly fucked. 

Jonny’s so tight around him, slick and perfect from the lube, the expanse of his back flushing violently with color as he struggles to take Patrick’s thick cock. Still, he arches his spine and reaches back to spread his cheeks even wider, asking for more. It’s amazing, _he’s_ amazing, trusting Patrick with this, letting Patrick open him up and enter his gorgeous body. It fills Patrick again as he sinks in, inch by inch—tenderness, wonder. 

Love.

“Beautiful,” he whispers out once he’s seated completely in Jonny’s body, looking down at where they’re joined, where he’s splitting Jonny open. Jonny makes a hurt noise, clenching around him, back muscles locking up. “Come on,” Jonny says roughly. “Make me take it.” 

So Patrick pulls back, savoring the image of Jonny stretched impossibly wide around him until the only thing holding Jonny open is the flared head of his cock. He has to take a moment to trace around the lube-slick rim with his fingers before he takes a deep breath and snaps his hips back in, hard. They both moan. 

“More,” Jonny demands breathlessly, rolling his hips back. Patrick digs his fingers into Jonny’s sides, pulling Jonny back on his dick while he thrusts forward, rough and hard, making Jonny cry out and shake. 

_"More,”_ Jonny gasps out, and Patrick tightens his fingers, starting an unrelenting rhythm, drawing Jonny back towards him while he fucks forward, filling Jonny up, punching whimpers out of him with each drive in. It's—

 _Good_ doesn't even begin to cover it. How did he give this up? How did he walk away? Suddenly, the need to see Jonny’s face is overwhelming—can he feel it, this huge thing between them? Patrick pulls out completely, making Jonny whine at the loss. “Patrick, what—” Patrick shoves at Jonny’s hip, causing him to fall back on the bed, back pressed to the mattress. 

Jonny looks up at him with wide eyes as Patrick positions himself between Jonny’s thighs. “What are you—” Patrick fits his head at Jonny’s open hole and slides in, the rest of Jonny’s words lost to a strangled moan. Jonny throws his head back, shutting his eyes tight. It’s a lot to take in—the pale arch of his throat crosshatched with color, sweat beading at his temples, lips bitten raw from where his teeth are sinking down, trying to stifle the sounds coming out of his mouth. 

Patrick tries so hard to give Jonny what he wants, tries to keep his movements fast and rough, but Jonny’s just so fucking _lovely,_ falling apart beneath him, and the need to cherish him and treat him sweet fills Patrick up with blistering intensity. Patrick slows his thrusts, eases the hard grip he has on Jonny’s hips and just—gives into it.

He fucks in, slow and deep, throat sore with the force of his affection as Jonny’s eyes flutter open. He has no idea what’s showing on his face, but Jonny lets out a little gasp, cheeks coloring. “Patrick, come on, harder,” he says tersely, shoulders going stiff.

Patrick doesn’t answer, letting his head fall forward as he rolls his hips forward, changing the angle. “J—Just _fuck me,_ come on,” Jonny says, harsh tone at odds with the appreciative gasp he lets out. 

“I can’t,” Patrick whispers, truth slipping out. He looks up to meet Jonny’s eyes. Jonny looks almost _angry_ , mouth opening and closing, even as his ankles come up to rest on Patrick’s shoulders.

“Give it to me,” Jonny says, frustration bleeding into his voice. “Make it rough, make it hurt, come _on_.” He rolls his hips up, trying to chase more of Patrick’s cock. But Patrick’s thrusts stay slow, stay deep.

“I can’t, baby, I can’t,” Patrick gasps out, heart aching in his chest. 

Jonny’s eyes shut at the words like they cause him pain, a little moan escaping his lips as Patrick leans forward, shifting Jonny’s hips up. “That’s what you want,” Jonny repeated determinedly, eyes still closed. “You want it rough. _Take it._ ” His face is all tensed up. 

Patrick can’t help himself, he has to bring a hand to cup Jonny’s cheek, smooth the creased line of his brow. “No,” he says, punctuating the word with a thrust. “I don’t.”

Jonny gasps, flinching away from Patrick’s touch, turning his cheek. “Yes you _do_ , Patrick, just—” He sounds so lost, and Patrick hates himself for a moment. He can’t stop. 

“No,” Patrick whispers, fucking in deep, making Jonny feel the full drag of his cock inside, the hard heat.

Jonny’s eyes flutter open. “You want to hurt me,” he says, sounding like he’s trying to convince himself, fingers coming up to press against the bruises on his waist like he’s trying to ground himself “Remember?” 

If Patrick were a smarter man, he’d smirk and say yes, would wrap his fingers around Jonny’s throat and pound him into the mattress until he forgot Patrick’s momentary blip in sanity. 

But Patrick’s never been smart, especially not when it came to Jonny. He gently takes Jonny’s fingers off the bruise, strokes over them lightly with his fingers. “Ask me what I want.”

“What?” 

Patrick thrusts. “It’s my turn, Jonny. Truth. Ask me what I want to do to you.” Jonny doesn’t answer, teeth going back to bite at his plush lower lip. Patrick ducks down to kiss him, startling Jonny into releasing his lip, arms wrapping around Patrick’s neck on instinct. Patrick waits until Jonny’s looking straight into his eyes and doesn’t let him look away.

Patrick continues the steady, gentle roll of his hips as he starts talking. “I want you to make you laugh,” he says, watching Jonny’s lip tremble. “You have the dumbest laugh, do you know that? Your nose scrunches up and your eyes crinkle at the corners,” Patrick smiles just thinking about it. “It sounds completely and utterly ridiculous. I want to hear it all the time.” His last words come out on a whisper, feeling more and more like a confession. 

Jonny’s eyes have gone glassy, arms tightening around Patrick’s neck. Patrick changes his thrusts again, making them short, sharp, the angle designed to get Jonny directly on his prostate, and sure enough, Jonny cries out. “Wanna make you feel good, always,” Patrick continues softly. Tears start to well in Jonny’s eyes, and Patrick stops his movements. He catches them with his thumb when they fall, brushing them away, heart lurching. “Shit, Jonny” he says, feeling sick, “Fuck, I’m—don’t cry, please. Just want you to be happy.”

But the tears just fall more steadily, and Patrick feels crazy with the need to make Jonny feel better. “I’m sorry,” he says desperately, catching Jonny’s tears. “I’m sorry.” Jonny’s taking big, watery breaths, clinging so hard to Patrick’s neck he feels like he’ll have bruises to match the ones on Jonny’s waist. Suddenly, squeezes his legs even tighter around Patrick.

He looks up at Patrick. “Don’t you dare stop,” Jonny says fiercely, tears streaking down his face. “ _Come on._ ”

Patrick feels like the breath has been knocked out of him. “Okay, okay,” he babbles. “I’ll give you what you need, don’t worry.” His hands reach up to grasp at the headboard. He starts driving in deep and hard, putting the full force of his lower body into his thrusts, and Jonny _keens_ , head falling back, gasps coming out of his mouth. There’s sweat sheening his skin. “Fuck, you’re so gorgeous sweetheart,” Patrick says because he can’t help himself, biting his lips as soon as the words are out. 

Jonny mewls, head swinging hack up and raising his eyes, still bright with tears, to stare straight at Patrick. He tugs Patrick down to kiss him, hands tangling in Patrick’s curls. “Patrick, _fuck_ ,” he chokes out, sounding desperate. “Jonny, Jonny,” Patrick mumbles against Jonny’s lips, moving up to press kisses underneath the damp, delicate skin under Jonny’s eyes, giving his all in his thrusts, trying to get Jonny on that spot every time. 

_“Patrick,”_ Jonny rasps out, fucking himself back on Patrick’s cock, harsh sobs rising in his chest, whether in response to Patrick’s words or his renewed efforts, Patrick doesn’t know. They’re looking straight at each other now, Jonny’s mouth open in shock, lashes spiky with tears as he gazes up at Patrick, tear tracks marking his cheeks. 

“I missed this so much,” Patrick breathes, reaching down to thumb across Jonny’s cheekbone, feeling his orgasm starting to build inside him. This time it’s Patrick who shuts his eyes, groan tearing out of his chest, because if he keeps looking at Jonny, it’s going to be over. It’s easier to say the next part with his eyes shut. “Missed you,” he whispers, feeling Jonny’s nails dig harder into his skin. Jonny’s making a noise, over and over—

_Patrick, Patrick, Patrick._

Patrick has no choice—has to open his eyes, trace the way Jonny’s lips shape his name again and again like a litany. He’s so beautiful it almost hurts to look at him, but Patrick can’t look anywhere else, gaze stuck on Jonny’s face even as he feels himself unravelling. 

He promised to give Jonny what he wanted, but he’s too selfish, his feelings bursting his seams and seeping into every word he utters, every move he makes. Now he has Jonny’s body held tight against his, Jonny’s taste on his tongue, their heat mixing together—everything rises to the surface and presses against his lungs until Patrick can’t hold it in any longer. 

It falls from his lips like a bomb.

“I love you,” he gasps, and the way Jonny’s face shifts is an explosion in slow motion.

Jonny cries out, shuddering beneath him, and he watches with amazement as Jonny comes without a hand on him, slicking up his abs while he sobs and clenches around Patrick’s cock. “Oh _fuck_ ,” Patrick chokes out—it’s enough to send him over the edge, feeling his release crash through him with almost overwhelming force, vision blurring for a second. 

When Patrick comes down from the high, Jonny’s shaking beneath him, hiding his face in his hands. Panic laces up Patrick’s spine, deep and bright. He pulls out and rolls onto his side, wrapping his arms around Jonny. “Hey, hey, hey,” he murmurs, smoothing his hands over Jonny’s back, heart sick with worry, feeling as raw as an open wound. 

He doesn’t know if he’s making things better or worse, but the desire to touch Jonny, to ground him overrides all his other instincts. Jonny buries his face in Patrick’s neck, tears wetting Patrick’s skin as he trembles silently. “Talk to me,” Patrick pleads. “Jonny, talk to me, please.” Fear is starting to wrap around his heart like a vice, threatening to choke him alive.

“You left me.” The words are whispered right into the curve of Patrick’s neck, Jonny’s lips moving against his skin. “Why did you leave me?” Jonny sounds small, lost. Every second feels like it’s dragging in slow motion and accelerating at the same time. Patrick’s heart is beating fast in his throat, but his brain feels sluggish, skipping behind. 

“What?” he says dully.

Jonny finally removes his face from Patrick’s neck, lashes casting long shadows as he looks down, avoiding Patrick’s gaze. “You just—stopped things between us. Kept waiting,” he says, finally looking up, eyes still shimmering with unspilled tears. “Kept waiting for you to come back to me, but you never did.” 

There’s something tugging at Patrick’s mind, making his hands shake as he looks at Jonny’s face, open and vulnerable, twisted with sadness and _longing_ —a slow, creeping realization that somewhere along the way, Patrick fucked up. Big time.

“You wanted me back?” Patrick says, voice thick with wonder, knowing it’s true as the words leave his mouth and Jonny shudders, answer clear in the way he clutches Patrick tighter. “Shit, Jonny—I thought I was just a convenient fuck to you.”

Jonny exhales on a sigh, a sad smile tugging at his lips. “There was nothing convenient about you, Peeks.” 

Patrick swallows, heart in his throat. “I didn’t know.” Horrifyingly, he feels tears budding in his own eyes. “I didn’t know,” he repeats, voice going choked up and miserable. Jonny makes a wounded sound and tentatively brings his fingers up to stroke through Patrick’s hair, hands shaking unsteadily. 

“I’m having a hard time believing this,” Jonny admits. “Just how drunk are you?” he jokes, but it falls flat, mouth tight at the corners with tension. 

Patrick frowns, stilling Jonny’s hand in his hair and pulling it down, wrapping it with his own. “Don’t,” he whispers, bringing Jonny’s hand up to his mouth and pressing a kiss to the tips of his fingers. “Don’t.”

Jonny’s face crumples then and he takes a shaky breath. “I’ve just loved you for so long, this—it doesn’t feel real.”

And Patrick has to close his eyes then, grateful he’s lying down, because hearing those words come out of Jonny’s mouth is enough to make him feel like he’s going to pass out. “I know the feeling,” he says, voice cracking. 

And then Jonny’s mouth is on him, fast and hard, and Patrick finds himself kissing back. There’s an edge of desperation to Jonny’s kisses, the way he’s biting at Patrick’s lip, the rough carding of his fingers through Patrick’s hair. 

Patrick pulls away, gasping. “Hey,” he says, thumb resting on Jonny’s quivering bottom lip. “What’s wrong?”

Jonny looks at him, pink-cheeked and wild-eyed. He swallows. “I’m just trying to make the most of it.”

“Make the most of it?” Patrick echoes back, brow creasing. 

“Before things go back to normal,” Jonny clarifies. “Tomorrow morning.”

Patrick’s brain blanks out. All he hears is white noise. 

_Back to normal_

_Back to normal_

_Back to normal_

“Oh,” he says carefully. “Right, of course.”

Jonny’s eyes dim a little as he swallows. “We can’t—it would never work, with our lives. With hockey.”

Each word is like a slash of a knife, and the sorrow in Jonny’s expression is salt, burning bright on the open cuts. 

“Right,” Patrick echoes blankly, a haze starting to cloud his mind, like his body is trying to protect him from the full brunt of the misery caused by Jonny’s words. 

“Patrick—”

“So what now?” Patrick asks, cutting off Jonny’s worried voice. The question hangs in the air, heavy and oppressive. There’s this silent scream building in Patrick’s chest, a whirlwind of hurt and anger and disappointment that can’t understand why Jonny won’t fight for it, won’t fight for _them_ —

Jonny kisses him again instead of answering, but this time there’s no frantic edge, lips and tongue so soft and sweet against Patrick’s own that Patrick trembles with it—the feeling he’s being cherished, being savored. 

Jonny takes Patrick’s face in his hands, eyes warm and intense. “I need you to know,” he whispers, thumbs swiping across Patrick’s cheeks. He kisses Patrick’s chin. Presses his lips across his jaw, peppers a careful path of kisses along the same route Patrick had earlier, kissing every part of Patrick’s face except for his lips. 

Jonny pulls back. The way he looks at Patrick makes Patrick’s breath catch in his throat, and for a moment, he wonders if this was what it was like for Jonny when Patrick was looking at him earlier.

Patrick closes his eyes and his fury wisps away, melting into bone-deep sadness, tears escaping down his face. “Dare you to kiss me,” he says to Jonny, voice thick with emotion. And Jonny does. 

He kisses him and kisses him and kisses him, lips moving against Patrick’s as they hold each other. They don’t stop when they get out of the bed, don’t stop when they stumble into the bathroom, don’t stop until they’re standing under the hot spray of the water, mouths numb and swollen from tasting each other. 

Jonny lets Patrick slick his skin up with soap, and Patrick lets Jonny massage shampoo into his curls, and they stand in the shower until their fingers prune up. Patrick learns the way Jonny shivers when Patrick reaches down to clean the crease of his thigh, the way it feels to run his fingers over Jonny’s muscles as water sluices his skin, the slip of Jonny’s soaked hair, fine and soft between Patrick’s fingers—he tucks each new piece of information deep in his heart and locks it away. 

They end up tangled in bed together, lights off and limbs intertwined, damp hair mixing together on their pillowcases. In the dark, it’s easier to see the light that filters through the windowpane, how it bathes Jonny’s skin in a faint, pale wash—illuminating the harsh indents of where Patrick’s teeth had sunk into the soft flesh above his hip, the drops of water still sheening his skin glinting wetly under the glow. 

“I don’t want to sleep,” Jonny confesses, lips soft against Patrick’s collarbone, tucked under Patrick’s chin. He shifts back so that he’s looking into Patrick’s eyes. Jonny’s lids are heavy, blinking slowly, but as they fall shut, he snaps them back open, looking terrified every time he flirts with giving into his exhaustion. Patrick strokes his hair, fingers tender and heart sore. “You need rest,” he says. 

Jonny bites his lips, eyes as scared as Patrick feels. “Peeks—”

“I know, Jonny, I know,” Patrick whispers, dropping a kiss onto Jonny’s forehead. Jonny sighs, breath ghosting across Patrick’s drying skin.

“M’so tired,” he says drowsily, vowels going long and dragging at the ends. His words fill with urgency, and he squeezes Patrick’s fingers hard. “Don’t let me fall asleep.” 

Patrick swallows down the ache in his throat. “Okay, Jon,” he murmurs, stroking through Jonny’s hair. 

Jonny sighs. “Love your hands,” he says quietly, and Patrick’s heart clenches so tight in his chest he feels like he can’t breathe. It’s nothing Jonny hasn’t said to him before. He said it while they were fucking, sometimes, and it always made Patrick angry because it gave him hope—beautiful, dangerous, impossible hope that it _meant_ something, that Jonny loved him back, and—

Now he knows it means _everything_ , and it doesn’t matter anyway. 

Patrick is still stroking Jonny’s hair when Jonny drifts off a few minutes later, his hand still folded with Patrick’s. 

He looks at Jonny, sweeping his gaze over his face—the delicate curve of his lips, the swoop of his nose, the white scar on his upper lip, standing out in stark contrast to his skin under the moonlight. Patrick can still remember what it felt like to be inside him, what it felt like to taste him—feels him warm and alive under Patrick’s hands, has the image of Jonny looking back at him with the naked desire and affection Patrick has always craved from him burned into his brain. 

It feels impossible not to have all his senses consumed by Jonny, but—he knows it’ll fade. It did before, and it will again. But Patrick doesn’t _want_ it to, doesn’t want to forget the way Jonny looks when he comes, the sound of his gasps when he’s touching himself, the feeling of his lips against Patrick’s. He can’t stand feeling like this, like he’s losing something so fucking precious, slipping out of his grasp in front of his eyes. 

He feels weariness settle into his own body, but he doesn’t let himself sleep. He just—looks, a different memory flashing across his mind every time he blinks. 

_Jonny at thirteen, impossibly serious for his age, putting his gear on with meticulous grace._

_Jonny in his kitchen, voice low and warm, speaking to his mother in French on the phone, teeth flashing as he smiles._

_Jonny on the ice, face scrunched in joy from scoring, arms extended, waiting for Patrick to crash into his arms._

_Jonny scowling at him, face creased in irritation._

_Jonny in his bed, pink and flushed and sated._

Each image twists the knife in further, making it that much harder to let Jonny go. Patrick knows it’s not fair, knows he should untangle himself from Jonny’s arms, crawl back to his own bed—anything to make the morning easier for them. Patrick’s done a lot of difficult things in his life. Proved people wrong, defied the odds, always betting on himself because _he_ knows he can do it. 

He doesn’t know if he can do this.

He’s scared of how right it feels to have Jonny wrapped around him. He’s supposed to be saying goodbye, but as each minute slips away, Patrick just feels more and more certain that he _can’t_ let Jonny go. The moonlight spilling onto Jonny’s skin turns to daylight, bringing the gold out as the sun starts to peek out of the horizon, and Patrick looks. Patrick looks at Jonny and he _wants_ , can’t ever imagine looking at Jonny and not _wanting_. 

When the soft light starts to turn bright and harsh, Jonny finally stirs, shifting in Patrick’s arms, rustling the sheets. Jonny opens his eyes, and he’s beautiful. Cheek stamped with the imprint of the pillow crease, face hazy with sleep, and so, so beautiful. 

Patrick’s already looking back at him. He shouldn’t be, but he is.

“Uh, morning,” Jonny says shyly, and Patrick draws his arms back, putting space between them even though his hands burn with the desire to touch Jonny as soon as he releases him. 

“Morning,” Patrick echoes, a smile pulling at his lips despite the misery starting to swirl inside him. As soon as they pack their stuff, leave, step out into the hallway—it’s over. Silence falls between them, fraught and loaded, and Patrick still can’t force his eyes away from Jonny’s face. 

Jonny lets out a short laugh. “Fuck, if you keep looking at me like that, I’m never gonna be able to leave this room.”

Patrick swallows, mouth about to form an apology. “Good,” he says instead, a little mulish, a little sad, watching Jonny’s face go pained. 

“Patrick—”

“I know,” Patrick says, tearing his gaze away, staring at the patterns on the carpet instead. “I know.” There’s a small stain by the foot of the bed. Jonny is silent beside him when he looks back. 

Jonny hesitates, eyes scanning over Patrick’s face before he rolls to the side and grabs his phone off the nightstand. “ _Fuck,_ we’re late,” he swears. He spins back around. “Why didn’t you wake—” he starts heatedly before cutting himself off, eyes wide. _I couldn’t_ , Patrick knows his face says, sees by the way Jonny is looking at him that he understands. 

There are certain moments in life where the branch splits with no way back—life-altering choices, sending you down one of two paths. Sometimes you recognize the fork in the road when you get to it. Most of the time, you don’t. 

This is one of those moments. Patrick knows it, feels it in his bones with startling clarity, and it’s—terrifying. Because what’s at stake here is bigger than himself. It’s—Jonny. And the possibility of fucking it up makes it hard to breathe. 

But as he watches Jonny’s face close off, starting to turn away from him, the words rush to the tip of his tongue, startling and risky and inevitable. 

“I dare you to be with me,” Patrick says, heart beating like a rolling drum leading to a final crescendo. 

Jonny blinks, breath harshing the air in a sharp inhale. “Patrick, what—”

“I dare you to be with me,” Patrick repeats, words quiet and steady, watching Jonny’s eyes widen and mouth part open a few times, settling into an unhappy line. 

“Patrick, we fucking _can’t_ ,” he says like it hurts him, like he’s angry that Patrick is making him say it out loud and confront reality. Except it’s _not_ reality—not _their_ reality. Patrick won’t let it be. 

“You wanna know what I can’t do?” Patrick swallows, reaching out, running the pads of his fingers over Jonny’s cheeks, tracing the grooves left by the pillowcase. “I can’t go my whole life pretending like I don’t want to touch you, that I don’t want to kiss you, that I don’t _want you_.” 

He tries to imagine it—weeks of stilted words and avoidance. Worse yet, the forced cheerfulness and casual claps on backs, that would follow, overcompensating with friendliness so they can pretend, forget, pretend to forget—burning up on the inside all the while. 

Patrick can’t. Patrick _won’t._

“Be with me,” Patrick says, voice even. “I dare you,” he adds, smiling softly. 

Jonny’s looking at him like he’s seeing Patrick for the first time, eyes moving frantically over Patrick’s face. “This is damn near impossible.”

“I know.” Patrick says. “Since when has that ever stopped you? Ever stopped _us_?”

Jonny stares at him, and Patrick gazes back, resolute. They’ve done _everything_ , been through _everything_ —grown up together, taken the world by storm, fought _hard,_ battled it out until the end, and they came out victorious on the other side. There’s nothing they can’t do together—Patrick knows it, feels the truth of it with every fiber of his being. 

He’s had to try for years to hold back his feelings for Jonny, keep them locked up, terrified they’d bleed onto his face, into his words. Now, he loosens the damn, letting every little emotion flood onto his face. 

_I love you._

_I can’t lose you._

_I won’t lose you._

“Jonny,” he says, voice raw, and Jonny’s walls crumble in front of his eyes. 

He closes his eyes. “Fuck, Patrick,” he says, voice thick. Jonny’s silent, and Patrick is waiting at the edge of a cliff. When he opens them, his eyes are shining. He gives a shaky laugh, and Patrick hopes. He hopes and hopes and hopes. “Well I can’t wuss out on a dare, can I?” A smile blooms on his face, soft and sweet. 

Patrick smiles helplessly back, joy bursting bright and sharp in his chest. “I’d never let you live it down.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Tumblr ](https://tarcanza.tumblr.com/) for updates and also on [Twitter ](https://twitter.com/tarcanza). Come say hi!


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